


Summer Skin

by lovetincture



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Claire's/Hot Topic AU, M/M, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23574172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Louisiana in the summer is hot and cloying. Will loves and hates it. He’s content and going out of his mind. He loves the boy who works across the mall and hates his guts. Which is to say, he’s a queer teenager in the South, out of place and going crazy and looking for a way to fit into his itchy skin.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 133





	Summer Skin

**Author's Note:**

> It started, as it so often does, with a [tweet](https://twitter.com/lovetincture/status/1248093255410921474). True to form, I continue to make truly bizarre premises really fucking serious. 😂
> 
> cn: homophobic slur

Will likes the summer. He spends it in a haze of bug bites and muzzy afternoons, brain half-scrambled from the swamp-damp heat of Louisiana in the summertime. It cools down at night, just enough for the sweat to tickle as it dries on the back of his neck. His hair is getting too long. It gets caught in his shirt collar every time he moves. He’ll have to go fight with it later—take his dad’s clippers to it, neck craned as far back as it’ll go trying to see in the dingy, chipped mirror.

Later.

Cicadas chirp somewhere out in the dark. He kicks his legs against the rotting wood of the porch, taking a sip of the warm beer he’d stolen from the fridge. Is it stealing if no one actually cares?

His dad’s slumped over the couch, snoring loud enough to rattle the walls. It sets Will’s teeth on edge, makes him chew his nails straight down to the quick. He stays outside, mostly. Because of that, because he likes the look of the moon from here, through the tall trees rising up at the edge of their property. They look like teeth in the mouth of an enormous beast, and it all feels appropriately grim. Will takes another sip of beer, tilts his head back, and watches the moon rise.

* * *

The job at Claire’s isn’t so bad, really. He doesn’t tell his dad where he works because his dad would probably call him a fag or something, but it’s at least cool indoors, a damn sight better than helping his dad work on the boats down at the dock.

Plus it’s not like Will’s ever been the most popular kid at school. He doubts most of the people there even know his name, so it’s not like anyone recognizes him to give him shit for his summer job. He recognizes them sometimes, though. A few of the girls from school come in for matching charm bracelets or dangling earrings that drip with fake diamonds. He sees them like clockwork.

He recognizes them, but they look straight through him, like he’s made of paper fading slowly into the walls. It’s not like it bothers him. It’s better, he thinks, to be invisible than to be a target.

It mostly is. And if it’s still not that great, well. That’s just life, isn’t it?

He’s not invisible to everyone, though. There’s a boy he sees sometimes, must be around his age, maybe a little older. He’s no one Will recognizes. Honestly he doesn’t look like anyone Will would know. From the way he dresses, Will figures he goes to the one fancy private school in town, the one he’s sure must give out sticks for asses along with the rest of the uniform. Will knows they work the same shifts because he always sees the boy while he’s getting off work, or when he’s getting in. He sees him across the food court sometimes, long legs and pale hair looking weirdly out of place under buzzing fluorescent lights and sticky plastic chairs.

Will’s eyes are drawn to him like a bug to a zapper, every time, in every room. He does it without meaning to, looking for the boy he’s started to think of as his one comrade in the weird slog of teenage mallrat capitalism. It’s a stupid thought, but it makes him feel better all the same, so he lets himself keep it. It’s not like it’s hurting anyone.

One day they look up at the same time, eyes meeting across a crowded mall lobby, and the boy raises his hand in greeting. He smiles, and his teeth are charmingly crooked—like Will’s, but better. Will blushes something fierce and studies the floor. He books it in the opposite direction and volunteers to stay late after work for the rest of the week.

He’s busy fixing a display—some kid that couldn’t have been more than five ripped down a bunch of shiny bracelets before their mother could hurry them away, shooting apologetic glances behind her—and that’s why he doesn’t notice the boy,  _ the  _ boy until he’s practically right on top of him.

“You do piercings here,” he says, startling the shit out of Will, and it’s not a question.

His voice isn’t anything like Will imagined, none of that all-American rich kid snob in it. Instead he has an accent that Will can’t place, one far removed from the twangy, grassfed South. It marks him as an outsider too—someone like Will in some small, inconsequential way that gives him far too much hope—and Will’s still trying to place it geographically when the boy raises his brows, waiting for an answer.

“That’s right,” Will coughs lamely. “Yeah, free ear piercing with any earring purchase.” He gestures vaguely at the sign.

“I was hoping for a tongue piercing.”

“Uh, you’re gonna have to keep hoping then, because we don’t do those here.”

“Could you, though?”

And it’s something about the way the boy says  _ you, _ something about the way the world rolls off his tongue, decadent and personal, that has Will saying yes before he thinks of the reasons it should be no.

They agree to meet at midnight, right here in the shitty mall they both work in, and the boy is walking away before Will can even figure out what the hell just happened. He remembers one thing, something besides dark maroon eyes and a conspiratorial curve of lips—he said his name was Hannibal.

It’s a weird name, and Will tries it on his tongue when he’s alone.

* * *

Will is surprised when Hannibal shows up.

“You came.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Will shrugs. “You don’t seem like the type to go sneaking around deserted malls in the middle of the night.”

Hannibal smiles, a tiny lift at the corner of his mouth that has Will’s stomach doing funny things. “What type do I seem like?”

Will scowls, annoyed. “I don’t know. Not that type.”

He opens the door with his key, hurrying Hannibal inside and looking around to make sure no one’s spotted them. He keys in his security code to stop the alarm from going off while Hannibal takes a look around, touching everything like he owns the place, examining the rack of Sensitive Solutions earrings like he cares.

“Were you hoping for rhinestones?” Will asks. It’s not a good joke. No one ever said that sarcasm was a  _ funny _ coping mechanism, just a functioning one.

“No,” Hannibal says, answering like it’s a real question, and that irritates Will too. He holds up a tiny ziplock bag with a silver barbell inside. “I brought my own jewelry.”

“Is it pointed on the end? Cause if it’s not, it’s not going to work.”

“It’s sharp enough.”

Will shakes his head. “This is such a bad idea. You sure you want to do this? Last chance to back out.”

Hannibal shrugs. “I trust you.”

“Well that’s stupid.”

He sets up anyway, stupid or not, because they’re here and he’d agreed to do this. If he’s honest with himself, he feels a fizzy rush at the idea that he’ll be allowed to mark Hannibal this way, to change him. It feels intimate—romantic, even, and Will wonders what the fuck is wrong with him.

He unlocks the case that holds the piercing supplies and spreads them out over the table. He adds the mostly-full bottle of Fireball whiskey he’d brought with him to the stash, deeming it a necessity. People in movies always drink before doing improbable medical procedures on themselves. He figures it’ll help.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at that, and Will just shrugs. “You’re getting your tongue pierced by a teenager while committing about three different crimes. What do you expect?”

Hannibal laughs a little, and Will likes it.

The interior of the shop, so twee and comfortably middle class by day, takes on a sinister hue at night. The candy-colored walls seem to loom, and Will feels a headache brewing. He takes a drink to make it stop, holding the bottle out to Hannibal who shakes his head.

Will shrugs and picks up a pair of gloves while Hannibal watches with interest, surveying his supplies.

“You’re not going to mark it first?”

Will narrows his eyes, hands on his cocked hips. “You really want me taking a Sharpie to your tongue?”

“I suppose not.”

“Alright, good.” Will pushes the small plastic flask back toward Hannibal. “So drink.”

Hannibal doesn’t even have the good grace to look grossed out while he takes a pull of the Fireball. Will expected him to think it was disgusting. He knows how sickly sweet it is, after all. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face as Hannibal wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before passing the bottle back to Will, chasing the flavor with a smack of his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Will takes a sip himself. He feels a weird illicit thrill at the fact that he’s putting his lips where Hannibal’s were, as if swapping spit secondhand is the most dangerous thing they’re doing there. The thing is, it feels like it.

He takes a deeper drink to ignore it, screwing the bright red cap back on before setting the (significantly lighter) flask down on the piercing table.

“Okay,” Will says. The word echoes strangely in the empty room. Or maybe that’s just him being strange again. “Sit down.”

Hannibal does, folding himself onto the stool, and god, Will hates him. Wants him. Something.

Will snaps on a pair of latex gloves and wipes the piercing gun down with an alcohol swab. He loads the jewelry Hannibal picked into the gun and stands in front of him. He realizes that he’s going to have to stand a lot closer if he’s going to do this right. He takes a deep breath and stands as close as he dares. Hannibal parts his knees to let Will through, and Will can feel the heat of them bracketing his hips.

Hannibal just  _ looks _ at him with that placid, contented look on his face, as if everything is right with the world. As if Will isn’t about to shove a piece of costume jewelry through his tongue.

“Okay,” Will says again. “Stick out your tongue.”

Hannibal does as he’s told, and fuck if  _ that _ doesn’t send a shiver through Will. Will grips Hannibal’s tongue in gloved fingers. The muscle is slippery and shockingly vivid beneath his hands. It feels like holding a fish, like catching an eel.

“This is such a bad idea,” Will mutters. He brings the piercing gun up to Hannibal’s tongue before he can change his mind. “Deep breath.”

Hannibal does, and it’s done, just like that. Will pulls the trigger, finger against the metal bar, and Hannibal makes a sharp noise of protest as the needle shoves its way through.

“Almost done, just hold still.” Will sets the piercing gun down on the table and picks up the other end of the barbell, the bright, shiny ball winking at him from the table. “Shit, that’s a lot of blood.”

Hannibal makes another angry sound, and Will bites his tongue.

“It’s fine. I read that head wounds always bleed a lot,” he says, talking just to fill the air.

Hannibal glares at him. He’s a surprisingly effective communicator, even with his tongue still firmly clamped in Will’s increasingly sweaty fingers.

“There,” Will pronounces at last, stepping back and stripping the gloves off. “All done. How’s it feel?”

He can see Hannibal trying to figure it out, moving his tongue around behind his teeth and swallowing the blood pooling ruby and slick in his mouth.

“Fine,” he says at last. Then, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. You want another drink?” He holds the bottle of Fireball out, shaking the dregs, and Hannibal shakes his head.

Will shrugs and drains the last of it himself. He feels awkward again, nothing to talk about and all his confidence fled now that he doesn’t have a needle in his hands. He busies himself cleaning up so he doesn’t have to look at Hannibal. He wipes the piercing gun down with more alcohol and tosses all their trash into a Walmart bag he brought with him for the purpose.

He expects Hannibal to leave.

Hannibal doesn’t leave.

He stands there watching Will put things away, not saying anything, and Will can feel his gaze like an iron brand on the back of his neck. He resolutely ignores it, checking the store one last time. The last thing he needs is to get fired over this.

“We should go. Mall security comes round every hour or so, even this late at night.”

Hannibal just nods. He doesn’t ask why Will knows that, and Will is glad. Hannibal probably assumes he sneaks in here to get drunk and fuck around with girls—maybe he thinks Will does it with guys, whatever. He has no reason to know that Will sleeps here sometimes, that sometimes it’s the safest place he can think to go.

“Do you want a ride home?” Hannibal asks. His accent has changed, softened and taken on an edge of sibilance as he talks around the swelling in his mouth.

It’s kind of cute. It softens something in Will, gives him a certain affection for this person he usually can’t stand. Hannibal looks different in the dark, strangely beautiful with the neon glow from the bar outside illuminating the side of his cheek.

Will shakes his head. It takes him a few seconds to find his voice, as if he’s the one who’s had his tongue skewered through. “That’s okay. I don’t mind the walk.”

“Can I walk with you?”

He startles. He wasn’t expecting that.

Will thinks of his dad, probably passed out drunk—in his bed if Will’s lucky, on the couch if he’s not. He thinks of their small, shabby home, his closet filled with holey sneakers and threadbare t-shirts. He tries to imagine Hannibal there and finds that he can’t. His imagination’s good, but it’s not that good.

“Okay,” he says anyway.

Because he wants it. Because he’s curious. Because his veins are thrumming with cinnamon whiskey, his head pleasantly fuzzy, and right now nothing sounds better than a walk beneath a sky of patchwork lights.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lovetincture) and say what's up.


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